In The Father, Greg and Zanna see a vision of the future.
SCORES
Level of emotion: 5
Level of horror: 5
Level of hope: 0
SHE SAW
There were far too many people at the advance screening of
The Father for it to be a media screening. Who were all these people? Some of them appeared to be not particularly interested in the film because they talked over the opening credits and one, in close proximity to us, directed her friend to go and get a coffee right as the movie was beginning. I was confused, but not nearly as confused as I would be for the next 97 minutes.
It's incredibly hard to stop your brain trying to make sense of things. It's a natural reflex that's almost wholly futile while watching The Father, a movie that puts the audience in the shoes of a dementia patient played by Anthony Hopkins. Anthony, also the character's name – blurring reality and fiction – is the only person we can be truly certain is who they say they are. I later learned film-maker Florian Zeller changed the lead character's name, which was Andre in the play on which the film is based, because he wanted Hopkins to connect more readily with his own emotions. It worked: his performance is outstanding and utterly heartbreaking but reading how emotional 83-year-old Hopkins was on set during some of the most devastating scenes, it does seem an ethically dubious directing technique.
The cinematography is beautifully disorientating, with long, tracking shots down hallways and in and out of rooms that change so subtly I was never quite sure they'd changed: "Is that the same kitchen?" "Wasn't that doorway a different colour last time?" "Is that the same street corner he saw last time he looked out that window?" The film does an excellent job of walking a fine line between being completely incoherent and making just enough sense to keep the viewer actively engaged.
I cried more than once. It's the most affecting film I've seen in a long time, possibly ever. Afterwards, Greg started talking to the publicist (I was in no state to be talking to anyone), who explained it was a test screening to see if it was too traumatic for people currently dealing with dementia. That's who all those people in the audience were. I don't know what the results of the post-viewing survey were but I'd be surprised if anyone could read the forms for all the tear stains.
HE SAW
I'd had an unsettling morning: it had been a mad rush to get the kids to get school and kindy, then I'd had an unexpected, unintentional call from a relative I hadn't spoken to in years, then I'd told a barista I'd been promised a free coffee and she'd assured me (correctly) I hadn't. By the time I arrived at the theatre, I felt out of whack, unsure of my footing, but sitting there next to the love of my life and best friend (Zanna), I felt things settling back to the comfortable happy stasis in which I currently exist.
For 10 minutes before the movie, we compared notes on our respective drives to the theatre. There were a huge number of feasible routes from our place, and we discussed them all. It was impossibly boring but once we'd started, it was impossible to stop. Zanna would say something about a detour she'd taken and it would spark a thought in me about a detour of my own. The conversation developed a kind of momentum. Several times we criticised each other for being boring ("Plot twist!" Zanna said, mock-enthusiastically, as I recounted a split second route change I'd made at the Balmoral Rd intersection) but still we kept on.
I didn't know what The Father was going to be about, although I had been told to bring tissues, which I knew would be unnecessary because I haven't cried in a movie for decades, although as a kid I'd cried more or less ceaselessly for years, to the point Dad once told me he wished he could cry like me because he hadn't been able to cry for decades.
It was only minutes into The Father when it became clear the movie - an emotional horror about a father's descent into dementia - would be both harrowing and claustrophobic, by which I mean it would clutch me so close to its central subject's bosom that his feelings of terror and confusion would merge with my own. It was like being strapped into a particularly terrifying amusement park ride for which I knew I wasn't prepared. I felt my face screwing up as I girded myself for the 90 or so minutes ahead, which I already felt disassembling and reassembling in a variety of horrifying iterations.
The movie finished or, more accurately, released us and we walked out into the foyer, where I was opening the door to the toilet when I heard Zanna say: "That's the women's!" I knew she must be wrong because I'd looked at the symbol on the door. I was sure I had.
The Father is in cinemas now.